The jazz club was abuzz with activity. An extended cluster of 20-somethings permeated the club with their smaller groups tentacle-connected to the host group. The band played more aggressively to match the energy. Two c-notes came through the door, which meant I had to cash them at the bar—bye, bye Ben Franklins. Two alleged dignitaries came through the door—one is a member of a 1960’s British invasion band that sold 52 million records and had 24 gold hits. I made them pay the cover. Even though they hesitated, since they expected to get in free. They didn’t. Makes no difference to me—old or current pop star, Pope, or President—entering the jazz club is the equalizer. Everyone pays… especially those that easily can
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